


Stiffening in Soft Robotics: A Review of the State of the Art

by Anonymous



Series: Tailspinning Into the Epilogues with Dirk and Jake [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Bukkake, Established Relationship, Glazed Donut Analogies, Hope Makes You An Eldritch Monster Sometimes, Hope Tentacles, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Penetration, Overstimulation, Safe Sane and Consensual, Subspace, Tentacle Monsters, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24147736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: How many tickles does it take to make Dirk Strider laugh?Ten tickles.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Series: Tailspinning Into the Epilogues with Dirk and Jake [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819627
Comments: 8
Kudos: 136
Collections: Anonymous





	Stiffening in Soft Robotics: A Review of the State of the Art

Your mind wanders in the shower. Less literally, these days, since your dream-self is a thing of the past and the only alternate realm to dick around in is your own shitty-but-capacious imagination. While you used to frequently employ it as a well-fortified zone-out space, the sort not even a rusted-out imperial droid would deign to enter, now, it’s just a comfort.

Scalding hot water. Eight different kinds of body wash, depending on the day’s mood and aromatherapy demands. Only one shampoo and conditioner; you’re not an animal, you know exactly what you like, and your hair-care routine is immutable. The vast majority of the maybe-too-long that some people are inclined to say you take in the bathroom is occupied by your own thoughts, save for a few minutes of lathering up and deliberately rinsing down.

Hair isn’t something you just fuck around with.

Everything else is open to speculation, in terms of to-be-fucked-around-with attribute. Some would say ‘too much’. ‘Whoa, boy, slow down, there, on the open-mindedness deal’. Fortunately, not Jake. At least, not to your face.

Steam turns each breath you take heavy and dense. Soothing. You can think that shit, in here. You can think any shit you want, ensconced within one wall of fogged-up glass and three of clean white tile. You put this shower together to maximize its ergonomic utility for this specific function: neurotic-prey-animal-brain reassurance. 

One hand bolsters you against the sliding panel as you bow your head beneath the stream of bracingly-near-boiling water. You’re stalling, now, the pads of your fingers tracing nervous lines in the condensation on the glass, warmed by the amount of time you’ve been in here but still nowhere near as sauna-like- _hot_ as the microenvironment you’ve created with the duration of your pull-your-shit-together shower.

You know what you have to do.

It would be fucking sacrilege to jack off in the shower, but you’ve been nobly fighting the impulse to just handle this bullshit flight-of-fancy yourself and let that be the end of it. You _know_ the post-nut-clarity here would eliminate any trace of the desire to broach this topic with your all-too-game-for-your-nonsense boyfriend. Until the next time, at least. And there _will_ be a next time. There’s no escaping your own dismal persona. You’ll drown in it, if you get the chance. It’ll choke you out, and it’ll just be your own moronic fingerless gloves leaving livid fingerprint-bruises on your immaculately clean corpse.

No, you need to talk to Jake. And to do that, you need to get out of the shower. 

Easier said than done.

He’s exactly where you left him when you emerge, still steam-damp, from the bathroom, a towel slung carelessly around your waist. It took a somewhat embarrassing amount of time to make it _look_ casual, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He has his customary napping-spot on your couch, a deep green corduroy monstrosity that takes up a solid quarter of the living room of your weird little apartment/workshop. By the look of things, he’s finished the first ‘Tremors’ movie and has moved onto the second. Or third, depending on how long you were in there.

It’s midday, warm afternoon light spilling into the small apartment, positioned high up over his sprawling McMansion, though in practice, you both spend more time here, since his house is more-or-less a museum of impulse purchases and empty rosé bottles. And he seems happier, here, for the most part, so where’s the harm in an additional fixture, a live-in Jake?

It just happens to mean that you don’t have an excuse not to say anything.

Shit.

How the fuck do you articulate something like this. Just lay it all out in the open, bare your soul, rip your still-beating heart out and hand it to him. It feels like you do it every time you speak, but every other difficult conversation was _nothing_ to this one. Like comparing the season-one villain of a long-running series with the season-six megaboss. Jesus fucking christ.

Just say something. Man the fuck up and say something.

“Which one’re you on?” you say, wimping out. Bitch move. Nice. Typical.

“Tremors 3: Back to Perfection!” he replies, propping himself up on an elbow, the better to grin over at you. You can feel his eyes on your body, not to excess, but the same way you always can. Heat rises to your cheeks.

You almost expected, on Earth C, that, surrounded by other humans, not just him, Jane, and Roxy, you’d start to have more hangups about your body. You know that your anatomical configuration isn’t the one typical to prescriptivist textbooks. Hell, you’ve known that shit since you could read one of those textbooks, so for the better part of twenty-odd years.

The anticipated moment of all-consuming bodily discomfort, ‘get me out of this meat suit and into the fabled Right One’, never really dawned the way you worried. Which is just as well, since you’d spent your wholeass life figuring out how to work around this one. Everything you do presupposes your slight proportional imbalance, the frankly unjust amount of tissue you’re packing upstairs. 

Your body is what you live in, and it’s what you make of it, and you’re proud of the densely-accumulated muscle that yields to a pronounced curve, when you don’t bind. You’ve gotten one hell of a thrill out of the soft hair that’s darkened and curled across your chest, the way your voice has deepened, your shoulders have broadened with muscle, and your shape has settled into something familiar but novel as you’ve aged into yourself.

You know for a fact that Jake isn’t the only one out there who appreciates what you’re serving, but thank fuck you’re back together, thank _fuck_ you’re making this work, because he’s the only single person whose opinion of your body you give one solitary shit about. And the fact that he thinks you’re handsome, and loves you the way a guy-with-a-kind-of-avant-garde-take-on-dudeness loves a guy-with-a-kind-of-avant-garde-take-on-dudeness, and the fact that even people who don’t know you’re their God call you ‘sir’, that shit’s more than enough to take the edge off, even on your most out-of-body days.

He’s got the most beautiful eyes, too. Brown-black, color-shifting to a rich forest green when the sunlight spills over him, the way it’s doing now, as he watches you. He's undeniably the most beautiful man you've ever lain eyes on, an effect only slightly dimmed by the fact that he's wearing a soft, grey t-shirt that says 'Surely Not EVERYBODY Was Kung Fu Fighting'.

“I’m absolutely delighted to say that the name doesn’t disappoint!” he adds, pausing the onscreen action with a burst of unnecessary hopey bullshit to avoid having to look under the couch for the long-missing remote or look away from your face. “Come on over, I’ll fill you in on what you’ve missed, it’s no trouble. D’you want some snacks? Skipped out on lunch while you were in there, don’t think for one second that I didn’t clock that! Roxy’ll tear me a new one if they find out I’ve been sitting idly by while you grind yourself to death without -”

“It’s fine,” you say, shaking a last bit of moisture from your hair and doing your best to walk like something other than a hyper-self-aware automaton, failing miserably.

“Dirk?” he asks, in evident concern, sitting up on the couch, which is exactly what you _weren’t_ aiming for, shit. “Hey now, is something the matter?”

It’s fucked up, because you’ve been playing this game, lately, where you try to sincerely tell each other what you’re thinking. And it’s not even your fault, really, that this particular thing you’re thinking about would percolate to the top.

It’s the stupid Tremors movies, and Jake’s delighted chortling at the practical effects or lack therof. The giant, sentient, malevolent worms. You were already on your way to the shower, couldn’t stop that train once it was already rolling out of the station, _ablution time_ , but he _distracted_ you, and you’re sixty percent sure it was on purpose.

“I do hope they call me, if they want to shoot a remake,” he laughed. “Not a lot of day-to-day applications for the ol’ eldritch gimmick. Heh, remember that, bro, or were you too dazzled by my saving your sorry behind to recall the vicissitudes of my victory?”

Like hell you were. And how the shit could you forget. An unadulterated hopesplosion-field _does_ things to a person, it turns out. Shit that goes beyond Jake’s occasional forays into the realm of healing his own broken bones that invariably end with a trip to Jane to deal with the ensuing osteosarcoma. Hope is a scary fucking aspect, and you don’t need to be currently-on-again dating a guy with a notably cephalopodic, horribly monstrous aspect-state to recognize that all too well.

It’s also, uh.

Kind of. A little bit. Sorta. Fucking hell, you can’t even think it. You’re going to slow-cook in your own repression at a low simmer until you’re a perfectly browned-and-tenderized beef stew of pure angst. But you can’t do that, can you. It’s antithetical to the approach you’re trying, this time. The ‘honesty’ one. The one where you try, sometimes, to stop beating yourself up long enough to let him know what’s going on inside your head, and he doesn’t exactly stop being a cagey bastard, but does occasionally take the padlock off said cage and let you in for a visit.

This definitely didn’t come up in the getting-back-together negotiation-fest. God fuck, you should’ve seen it coming.

Of course you remember that he can turn into the world’s most fucked up _tentacle monster_. He’s only brought it up (semi?) jokingly whenever your anime habit gets airtime in mixed company. Real laugh, Jake. Except not. At all. You’re dead fucking serious.

You want him to tentacle-fuck you.

You want him to tentacle-fuck you _so bad_.

“Dirk?” he says again, his mouth a tight line of concern, his eyebrows both raised _and_ furrowed. “I’ll be straight with you, m’friend, you are kind of freaking me out!”

“Can we talk?” you say, the worst possible thing to say, though it’s a start, you guess.

His eyes widen. He’s a trapped animal on the couch. Literal worst way to start a conversation, right, and you busted it out midway through this one. Basically bringing a thermonuclear warhead to a friends-and-family potluck, just tossing the thing in the middle of the dinner table and shouting ‘yahtzee’. Might as well backhand him across the face, with the look he’s giving you.

“Not about - everything’s great, you’re great, okay? Fuck. Better than great,” you continue swiftly, and the effect is like cutting the strings to an agonized marionette. He nearly collapses beneath the weight of his relief. This is a horrible time to bring any of this up. But if you just… put it out there, then at some point you can circle back.

Right? That’s how things work. You have to lay the foundation, first. Make a few nonchalant comments. Tentacles are hot, actually. Normal stuff you would say under regular circumstances.

It’s fucking exhausting, dancing around him like this. You don’t dance, and that’s for a reason other than an achingly sincere reference to that modern-day-epic, High School Musical 2, and specifically to timeless heartthrob Corbin Bleu’s game changing baseball-cap-hat-hair assemblage. That goddamned masterpiece of a man.

You rake your hand through your hair, trying to chill out. Somewhere within you lurks the capacity to chill. You have to believe that.

Things have just been achingly tentative between the two of you, which is bullshit. You’ve been on Earth C for going on five years. It’s not like you’re some blushing virgin, he’d _know_. You’re not made of glass. You won’t break. The damage to your dignity, being treated like something that will, being _fawned over_ by the guy who’s called _you_ overbearing, broken up with _you_ , now, what, three times over that same alleged fault? It’s a punch to the gut, and that’s not just something you can say, right? You can’t just tell him that it feels like he’s handling you with oven mitts on all over again, and not just when you have sex, either.

It’s the weirdest shit ever, basically, his efforts to take care of you. It’s not _bad_ , and it’s not even insincere, it’s just. It’s not all of what you need, and you feel like such an unimaginable heel for feeling like that already, like he’s working so goddamned hard to be something and you’re Siskel and Ebert both, chucking popcorn at the screen and making witty asides while he works his ass off, trying to accommodate someone who literally can’t be accommodated. Who doesn’t _want_ to be accommodated. Who wants an ass full of tentacles and doesn’t have the figurative balls to say it.

“You’re doing that thing you do,” Jake observes. “The zone-outty schtick.”

“Sorry,” you reply on autopilot.

“Won’t you at least stop dripping on the nice hardwood and have a sitdown while you get your thoughts in order?” he suggests, patting the couch beside him but glancing down at his lap.

You take the couch as opposed to the proffered little terrycloth shorts. Yes, sure, you’re a desperate slut, but not _that_ desperate. A guy’s got to keep a few things up his sleeve until the time is right.

Jake clucks his tongue disapprovingly and nudges at you until you’re laying back with your head propped up against his thigh, regardless, because he has a way of getting what he wants, and a way of having it somehow be exactly what you want, too. Call it a win for the tentacle monsters. All your shitty classpect does is make you hate yourself, which is a pretty lame power, even you can admit.

“So,” he continues, tracing over your eyebrows one at a time with a fingertip, just the slightest scrape of nail. You flex your shoulders and shift closer, and he doesn’t stop. “What’s all this about, Dirk? I’ll actually be pretty put out, y’know, if you don’t let me in on whatever you’ve got bouncing around in this big beautiful brain of yours.”

“Mmmnhhrrm,” you reply.

“Less helpful than you would think, dearest.”

He moves his attentions to your jawline, following the line of the bone again and again as he watches you through his dark eyelashes, almost hungrily. You wonder if he’s thinking about dissecting you, a fantasy he admitted to, once, all stuttering and abashed. God, he’s the hottest man alive.

A shame he keeps pulling himself back, walling himself away before, heaven forbid, he gets too close to telling the truth. The moment passes, and he leans in over you to kiss you on the cheek, then on the other cheek, to keep it symmetrical. When he resumes his gentle face-touching, which you lean into like a cat that’s found its way into a sunbeam, the look is replaced with a sort of fondness that you typically associate with, like, babies and adorable home videos of precocious pets.

It’s syrupy and at one point it’s maybe what you would’ve wanted from him, but not _now_. Except yes now, also, because his hands are big and warm and when he cups your face with them to kiss you again, it feels objectively amazing. His touch is reverent, pure affection. It’s what you’ve been able to make yourself ask for, and he’s doing it. Which reminds you that you’re a dick for complaining. Well, when have you not been a dick? Seriously, when have you taken a break, lately? You’re clocking all kinds of hours at the dickery-factory, really bringing home the bacon.

One hand slowly trails down to your neck, which jolts you back out of your thought-vortex. You’re laying, half-naked, post-shower, sprawled across his lap. Clumsy as this seduction has been, it’s hard to deny that some sort of seducing has clearly happened here. His fingertips find your collarbone, the soft curve of your chest, and linger, there, stroking you _very_ distractingly.

“I really fucking suck at this,” you force yourself to say, before it goes much further. He briefly stops thumbing at your perfidiously hard nipple, the warm weight of his hand resting over you.

“I must admit, I have to disagree,” he laughs. “You’re excellent at this. I’ve forgotten all about Tremors 3: Back to Perfection. That’s not easily accomplished. Now shush, won’t you, unless you’ve got something to say?”

“That’s not what I,” you start to protest, cutting yourself off with a sudden intake of breath as he tugs lightly at your nipple, the slightest twinge of real sensation behind the almost-gratifying ticklish heat of his gentler touches. “Fuck. Jake. I’m trying to… communicate.”

“Is this interfering?” he suggests, very fucking cheekily, because he does it again, and it’s no accident that you can feel his dick twitch in his lap as you groan quietly and arch up into his hand.

“Yeah, actually,” you say.

“Wouldn’t want to do that,” he replies. “Budge up, come along. In my lap, there’s a good man.”

Great idea. Face to face, way better for talking, totally. In theory. Right up until you’re straddling him, towel _all the way_ gone, his hand on your ass and the other steadying you between the shoulderblades, holding you like you’re barely more than a doll to him. It’s bullshit, you’re not small, five-nine is _basically_ average, he’s just overgrown and way too fucking smug about having a fancy big number to follow the ‘six’ in his height. You can throw him, make use of your low center of gravity and solid build to fuck him up, when it comes to a scrum, but you can’t manhandle him the way he can do this to you. Effortlessly.

He lifts you like it’s nothing, until your chest is conveniently at his face-level. You hate him. You hate him more than anything, as he mouths carefully at the nipple he’s been abusing, his tongue flat and warm and wet against you, working in slow and deliberate motions. It’s half-ticklish, half-bliss, and what the fuck were you thinking, asking for anything else but what you know, for a fucking fact, he’s warming up to do to you? You’re wordless, your spine bowed in an effort to get closer to him as he tongues at you, your chest basically smooshed into his face, though from his expression, he doesn’t seem to mind.

This is something he enjoys. He said so, and your observational inquiry has only validated the suggestion. He likes to _taste_ you -

No, focus. Damn it.

“Jake -”

He closes his lips around you and sucks, and you can feel your eyes roll back comically in your head. Your exhale comes out more like a grunt, and you can’t seem to catch your breath in the aftermath. It’s a shitton of stimulation, and it comes all at once. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, you want him to fuck you, you don’t care how he does it, actually. Would it even work, the hopey tendrils of pure glowy-white energy? What would it do to you, taking those? Full of him.

God, no, you have to say something. You have to… express this, the way you want all of him, not just the face he thinks you want to be dating. You don’t just want the better him, you want the him-that-can-be-better. You want to drown in him, not yourself. You want to choke on him. Swallow him whole.

There’s so much to him, the man currently sucking your soul out through your tit. The only person you can imagine touching you like this, seeing you like this, loving you like this. Or any way. You want, so badly, to believe that he loves you. That it isn’t just you, alone with your love trapped somewhere in your chest, like a confused bird beating itself against the glass in an airport terminal.

“I want you to stuff me full of tentacles,” you sigh, conclusively voicing your incredibly complex thoughts on the matter before you can lose all powers of speech.

He nearly spits on your chest in surprise.

“Uh, p’rhaps I didn’t catch that? Was a touch preoccupied, you understand.”

It gives you a second to steady your breathing.

“Your… maxed-out hope form, or whatever the hell. I want to fuck it.”

“Ah, so I heard right the first time,” he says thoughtfully, setting you down on his lap, where he’s rocking a respectable semi, nice. He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re getting his shorts wet, which is his fault, anyway. “Right now? Or is this a speculative sort of thing? Blow my buttons, Dirk, was this what you were trying to tell me?”

“I don’t actually give a shit, right this second,” you tell him, with excruciating honesty. “Any way you want to do it, just _fuck me_. But. Yeah. And, uh, it’s not speculative. If you can do it without invoking a Just death, do it. Fuck me up.”

“That’s an awful lot of license to give a guy, Dirk,” he says cautiously, inspecting your expression like he’ll find some evidence, there, of a trick or a misdirection. Nope. Nothing of the sort. You’ve thought this through. Had _plenty_ of time in the shower to think this through, and a hell of a lot of showers before that one.

“I want you,” you tell him. “Give me all you’ve got.”

“Well, aye-aye, captain!” he chuckles, as you surge up to kiss him while he still has a mouth to kiss, holy _fuck_. “Wait a minute, hold your horses, let’s - let’s not be hasty, alright?”

You draw back with a frown.

“You know how to say ‘cut that out’, if things get dicey?”

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes at the babying - you’ve done shit that required a nonverbal safeword before, a whole _hell_ of a lot of it, just… not recently - you demonstrate crossing your middle and index fingers into an ‘x’ and wiggling them about insistently.

“Spiffing,” he declares, giving each in turn a kiss. It’s sickeningly cute. You don’t have it in you to stop him. Not when you’re this close to getting spitroasted by your own boyfriend’s eldritch tentacleself. “Now, we could keep going as we were for a bit, and I could pull a switcheroo once I’ve got you… ready, or I s’pose we could just… have at it?”

There’s an almost dangerous glint to his eye at that last hopeful suggestion, though he sits back and waits for your answer without pushing even slightly. You decide to do the pushing for him, then, if he won’t do it himself.

“Jake English,” you announce, seizing him by the collar of his _horrible_ t-shirt and kissing him fiercely. “Fuck. Me. Up.”

“Roger dodger,” he says, and then the world goes completely white. You lose track of planar space. Gravity is briefly meaningless. You’re bathed in harsh light, an overwhelming-of-the-senses that also defies sensation. The last time you witnessed this personally, half your ribs were crushed and you were bleeding out on the floor of a shitty theater.

Then, as now, Jake’s radiance fills you with an odd, full-body sense of warmth, a buzzing aftertaste of lightning-storm, a sense of being pulled in all directions and made whole all at once. You don’t know how someone who’s tasted this could find any comfort in alcohol or other analgesics. There’s nothing like it. There’s nothing like him.

He fills your apartment, or else your apartment expands to accommodate him. The boundaries of reality are suddenly critically fuzzy, overwhelmed by his blinding refulgence, even as it ebbs to a manageable level and allows you to hold your eyes open for more than a moment or two.

You’re not exactly _bound_ so much as you are _held_ , a tendril of hopey lucency coiled carefully around your midriff, another snaking up your thigh. There are a lot of them. An impossible number, a writhing mass, when you look too closely. So you don’t. You trust him, and let your head loll back as as the warm tendril of… christ, it _feels_ like a million things, just caressing your stomach, running its oddly slick-feeling tip over the contours of your adductor. You don’t skip leg day. You’re glad he notices.

**Well of course I notice!**

Mid-relaxation, relishing the unfamiliar sensation of being caressed by pure hope, just getting rawdogged by the _abstract concept_ of it before he’s even gotten around to fucking you, you yelp at the intrusive voice. You hadn’t realized you said that out loud. Oh, wait.

“Didn’t realize I said that out loud,” you pant, straining slightly against his grip now that you’re no longer playing the part of ragdoll. The tentacle getting friendly with your inner thigh hums pleasantly, but it tickles, when you focus on it. There’s a resonance to his disembodied form.

**Awwww im glad youre having fun. So am i by the way this is very much on my list of exciting things to do to you. And with obviously but you know. I like to play around with you when i get the chance darling and this sort of scenario is really the only time you let me do it!**

“You’ve got a list?”

**Of course i dont have a list dirk have you ever known me to keep a list of anything? There would be one entry on my list and it would be thoroughly undoing you! But i think this will serve as a means dont you?**

This is more than you’ve gotten from him on the direct subject of his proclivities in a longass time, and you want to push further. He’s less reserved about it, you guess, less reticent about what he wants, when he’s the manifestation of pure fulfillment-of-want.

The tendril making its way up to the crux of your legs still feels _wet_ , but it doesn’t leave a cold trail where it’s touched you. It’s warm, instead, like sunlight falling over your desk as you work. And it seems damn curious about your junk once it gets there, tracing a nerve-searingly pleasurable route over your respective orifices, ignoring your dick, for the moment, which is throbbing almost painfully at the attention.

It lingers at your ass, probing at your hole exploratorily, without making any especially surprising movements. Nothing surprising about this. Just your normal, mundane tingly-warm-slick tentacle nudging at asshole kind of day. You squirm involuntarily at the attention.

As though in answer, fresh tendrils spring up to take hold of your wrists, gently spiraling up your forearms, not tight enough to be uncomfortable, but totally unyielding. Jake lifts your arms carefully over your head. These, too, buzz with the same kind of just-licked-a-battery intensity, the same heady sense of unfathomable power, something too big to see or to understand. They trace down to your biceps, hold you snugly.

Without fanfare, the tendril at your ass narrows slightly, softens at the edges, and enters you. The feeling is exponentially stronger when administered internally, and now you get the necessity for the restraints. You don’t just squirm, you full-body spasm, not sure what you want, whether it’s to get away or to drive whatever that thing is deeper inside of you. Either way, you get your wish. It retracts incrementally, then pulses further into you, widening slowly as it goes.

You might be screaming. There’s probably a better word for it, though. You can hear him chuckling in your head as he fucks you open effortlessly, easily, like the push-pull of the tides. Your brain is short-circuited, though, absolutely overwhelmed by sensation. He doesn’t let up, once he gets started. All you can register is pleasure building like static in your gut.

It takes you a moment to pick up on the tendrils climbing up your legs like ivy. A lot of them. Those can’t all be restraints, right? They engulf you readily in sensation, though nothing matches the one that’s slowly spreading you apart, sinking deeper into you with every stroke. Every inhale, at this point, is a ragged gasp for breath. Every exhale could, at best, be described as a soft cry of helpless, overstimulated pleasure.

Fuck, you haven’t even come yet. He hasn’t even touched your dick. You _really_ want him to touch your dick, though you know you’ll last about ten seconds and it’ll make the overstimulation a million times more excruciating.

 _Good_. You want it to hurt. You want him to make you cry.

He seems to know what you can take. A tendril about as thick around as the space formed when your thumb and index finger meet in the ‘ok’ sign begins to nudge at your other entrance, the one currently vacant of pulsating tentacle. It deforms slightly as it begins to maneuver its way inside you, and you scream in earnest at the fullness of it, the warmth and the way it hums as it slides into you and waits, there, assuming its original shape as you slowly acclimate to it, fighting not to kick or jerk against your bonds, knowing it’s useless, needing to, anyway, every muscle in your body contracting, fighting to take him on, to somehow absorb the overabundance of sensation and process it into something other than pleasure pleasure pleasure please more.

“More,” you feel yourself demanding, as the tentacles begin to pulse in tandem, one always driving deeper as the other withdraws even slightly. “Please, Jake, more.”

 **No more words how about that dear thing?** he replies, and a tendril hums at your parted lips before slipping inside, swelling as it does so to fill your mouth entirely. You’d wondered how it would taste. The answer is kind of like burnt marshmallow, ozone, vanilla, but the sort suspended in alcohol. Hope is bittersweet, emphasis on the bitter, but not without the sweet. Figures. You suck the appendage as much as you can manage, when it’s literally filling you, pouring into you.

He laughs again, you think. You can’t bring yourself to care about anything but _please dear god touch my dick touch me touch me touch me_. Forget ten seconds. You’re not going to last ten milliseconds. You could probably come from what you’re getting, if you could wrap your brain around any one sensation.

You beg for it, in the minuscule range of motion you have available to you. He’s got to see the way your abdominal muscles flex frantically every time he drives into you, the way your fingers curl, vying to form fists, to dig into something, finding nothing but the humming pleasure of their own tendril-cage. There’s no relief from it. He’s going to torture you to death. You’re going to drown in oxytocin, and you’re going to die a happy man.

Then, one curls around the stiffened swell of your dick, without any forewarning. If a tentacle wasn’t pumping down your throat, you would scream again. Though you would have been screaming all along, right? You seize in your restraints, biting down involuntarily, though Jake doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t react even slightly. Your climax is violent and it doesn’t stop, he doesn’t stop fucking you, nothing eases up even slightly, oh fuck, you really are going to die like this, he really is going to fuck you to death.

Your eyes feel hot and wet, and your eyelashes cling together with helpless tears as you shudder, otherwise limp. A friendly little tendril wipes them away. The others show no sign of stopping. Your ass is stretched sufficiently that, despite the odd chafe-free lack of lubricant going on, you could almost definitely take his cock, he could use you easily, no further prep needed. And he keeps driving in, quick and insistent, never not inside you in one way or another, but thorough, full-body, a second heartbeat that’s just him pounding you in every hole.

At some point, you might black out. At very least, you go limp and pliant in earnest, no act to it at all, just a strange post-orgasm euphoria that extends through the punishment of being fucked past a normal person’s limit. You’re not normal. This is exactly what you want. Being stroked off, fucked, being _his_.

He tests your limit, of course. A second tendril twines with the first in your ass, both moving distinctly from each other, writhing inside you, and the tentacle in your mouth is no longer sufficient to muffle your screams. The second your body is capable of it, you’re coming again. The intensity of orgasm is such that it feels like it’s been ripped out of you. He doesn’t stop. You scream and thrash but you don’t tap out.

The tendrils snake their way down from your arms to zero in on your chest, and that does it, again. The stimulation is relentless, runs like an electrical current through your body. You’re just _gone_ , floating somewhere on a placid sea, warm and safe, perfectly relaxed. He’ll use you however he wants. 

You watch from somewhere above and below as well as inside as the tentacles shoved inside of you still, shudder, and begin to release some kind of thick, viscous emission, pouring down your throat, filling you until it leaks out, your body heavy with it, and it _keeps coming_ , christ, a little excessive, huh? You’re not complaining, though you are _choking_ until the tendrils generously reposition you, allowing you to cough it out and desperately swallow what you can’t, once again warming you from the inside out.

From here, they slowly ease their grip on your totally lax body, cradling you rather than restraining you, a few nipping in here or there to flick away goop that’s gotten too near your eye or to smooth your hair out of your face. You feel it through a haze of exhausted pleasure.

The image, slowly, resolves to actual human arms stabilizing you in an actual human lap.

You are still covered in tentacle cum. Nice. Jake is somehow still dressed, which is also nice. Means you can bury your face in his shirt to sort-of-dry-it-off while also shoving your hands under the garment to cop a feel. Massive bara titties are well known to be the most comforting force in the universe.

“Well,” he announces, with evident but almost scholarly delight, “that was weird!”

The noise you make in agreement is incomprehensible, even to you. He laughs, thumbing your lip a bit cleaner before scooping you into a kiss. You make a sincere effort to reciprocate, but your body is moving a beat behind your perception of the world. He seems to enjoy it.

“Tuckered out?” he suggests.

You nod vaguely.

“Got a little more in you? Satisfying as that was, on a somewhat bizarre, internal level, I’ll, er, have to take care of myself, here, at some point, though it doesn’t have to be right away,” he says, a touch hesitantly. You register, for the first time, that he’s still hard underneath his shorts. Huh.

Without hesitation, you twist free of his arms, trying to summon up enough coordination to stand and reposition yourself. This proves more difficult than you anticipated, but once he figures out what you’re trying to facilitate, he happily wriggles off his shorts and lifts you back into his lap.

After all that, you hardly expect it to feel like anything, but he’s warm as he slips into you, familiar and solid and comforting. His hands, one on your back, one digging slightly into your hip, are good in a different way. After absolutely taking you apart, he holds you together.

“I think I could watch you come forever,” he says, almost conversationally, nothing but a slight hitch to the end of the statement suggesting that his slow, rolling thrusts into you are doing anything for him. “You’re always very handsome, of course. But pleasure suits you, Dirk.”

You moan helplessly into his shoulder. Despite yourself, you can feel something that you’d thought was thoroughly unwound in your stomach trying to wind itself back up for another go.

“Good boy,” he tells you, as you try to clench down around him, shuddering at his words as much as with the gentle, pleasurable sting of penetration. “Pretty thing. You would let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

The plaintive noise you make in response is intended in the affirmative. He seems to register that, his pace picking up slightly. You’re not trying to come again. You think it might literally kill you; you’re honestly surprised it hasn’t already. But it feels good, having him in you. In this kind of floaty brainspace, you’re pretty sure anything would feel good. Especially this.

“I’m sorry,” he says, almost too quiet to catch it, and then he’s tensing, losing track of the slow but persistent rhythm of his thrusts, and coming inside you. You barely feel it. He kisses you, long and deep, and you match the kiss in return.

He settles back onto the couch, holding you close, still inside of you, though that’s more incidental than anything. You appreciate it, nonetheless, along with his fingertips tracing sticky shapes, letters, abstract patterns against your shoulderblade. You just need to catch your breath, and maybe take a nap, right here. Common sense tells you to go wash all this gunk off before it sets, but the vibe you’re getting is that you’re both pretty spent, and you don’t want to ask to be carried back to the shower only to get dropped on your ass for your trouble.

So you snuggle up against Jake’s body, wondering how long it will take to become adhesively attached. It’d be pretty awkward to explain this one to basically anybody, so you entertain the vague notion that, with any luck, hope-bullshit and run of the mill cleaning detergents will be enough to remedy the mess. At least the rest of your living room seems unscathed.

As you regain your faculties for movement, you shift around on top of him, hiking yourself up by your loose grip on his shoulder, the better to actually nuzzle your face against his. It’s _sticky_ , though.

“I think we all learned a valuable lesson about bukkake today,” Jake says, maneuvering about to reconfigure his grip around you. You can feel him not wanting to let go of you just yet.

“Speak for yourself,” you say hoarsely. “I didn’t learn jack fucking shit about anything. And I never do. And I never will.”

“I love you,” he sighs, delivering a kiss to the top of your head.

“What, no, seriously? That’s fucked up. I love you too.”

“But if I love you, and you love me, then who’s flying the plane?” he exclaims in mock horror, rolling you onto your back and peppering your face with kisses until you strenuously protest.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” you argue, muffled by the kissing.

“It doesn’t have to make sense, Airplane! was an excellent movie! Oh, holy smokes, and you missed the end of Tremors, and _all_ of Tremors 2: Aftershocks, and maybe at this point we ought to restart Tremors 3: Back to Perfection? I think it stands on its own fairly well, and I bet you’ll really appreciate it. Some of the acting is actually quite excellent -”

He’s sitting back on his haunches, now, eyes practically lit up with shitty-movie-fervor.

“Jake. I’m buck naked and basically a hope-cum glazed donut waiting to get repossessed by a really fucked up monster-Krispy-Kreme right now, and you’re rolling around like Winnie the Pooh in here. Maybe let’s pump the breaks on cinema and I’ll focus on getting myself cleaned up before I have to explain the world’s hope-iest UTI to Jane. And probably bladder cancer to go with it, that’d be fun.”

“Ah, right-o,” he agrees, wilting only slightly. “Once more unto the breach, the breach being the shower?”

“Hello, darkness, my old friend,” you agree, smiling slightly. “But hey. Tremors 3: Back to Perfection sounds like a party. If you’re willing to start from the top once I’m out, I’m game for it.”

“So I’ll pencil you in for next Tuesday?” he sighs, though he proceeds to elbow you a bit reproachfully. “Just a touch of japery, m’friend, no trouble at all.”

You catch him by the elbow and kiss it. He gives you a look you don’t recognize, in return. Soft-eyed regard, not love or want or pity.

As you roll off the couch, with an unfortunate wet noise of de-adhesion, he stops you.

“Dirk, ah, before you head off, that was alright, wasn’t it? You… enjoyed that?”

The question catches you off-guard, and you snort in surprise. Jake’s got dead-zero reason to be insecure about his performance. Like, how many times did you come? Enough that your wobbly-legged stance isn’t fully owed to the devastation of various orifices, thank you very much.

“Five out of five hats. Would get hope-tentacled by again,” you tell him.

“Stellar, just - thought it for the best to make sure.”

“You can take that to the bank, bro. Collateral for a weirdass kind of loan, that’s how fuckin’ sure you can be.”

“Thanks. Sorry to be a wet blanket about the whole thing. I liked it, too. Whenever you feel the inclination, that sure is a thing that lives inside me, I guess, and is very much a thing that I enjoy doing!”

“Hell yeah,” you agree. “I’ll hold you to that, when I’m walking straight again.”

“You never walk straight,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging up slightly.

“Shut the fuck up.” If you had literally anything in hand, you would chuck it at him. As-is, you must content yourself to cross your arms over your unbelievably sticky chest, with a sound that promises punishing difficulty to un-sticking yourself in a few seconds.

He doesn’t argue that point, just offers you a full smile and disappears into your room, no doubt to steal your clothes. You hope he can do something about the couch, which is going to seem disgusting once you’re no longer yourself a being of pure filth and depravity.

That went… a lot better than you expected. Though in hindsight, what did you even expect? What the fuck have you ever really understood about Jake? You try, sure. God, do you try. But there are things that just don’t add up, some of which you’re certain are deliberate, some of which you’re pretty sure he doesn’t fully grasp himself.

You should figure out how to talk to him about it. Just how to talk to him, in general, as something other than an elaborate back-and-forth equilibrium of almost-getting-it. You really should. It’d be more than worth it, to know what the hell is ever going on in that man’s head. Maybe today’s the day you do it, actually pull it together and have another go at… understanding him.

Maybe once you wash the cum out of yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> When Ult!Dirk kills me I want to deserve it.


End file.
